Endless Possibilities
by JayRain
Summary: Threnodies 5 teaches, "Then the Voice of the Maker rang out, The first Word, And His Word became all that might be: Dream and idea, hope and fear, Endless possibilities. And from it made his firstborn." Maric has settled into his role as King of Ferelden, but now he must settle into his most important role yet: father of his firstborn, Cailan Theirin. Prequel to "Sneaking".
1. All That Might Be

_Endless Possibilities_

Then the Voice of the Maker rang out,  
The first Word,  
And His Word became all that might be:  
Dream and idea, hope and fear,  
Endless possibilities.  
And from it made his firstborn.

_From Threnodies 5_

**_Chapter 1: All That Might Be_**

It was like West Hill all over again.

The screaming. The crying. The helpless anguish Maric felt at being completely unable to _do_ _anything._

The door was solid oak, banded with wrought iron, and still Rowan's cries of pain could be heard in the hallway. Maric paced, running a hand through his scraggly blond hair and rubbing at his stubbly cheeks. When he blinked, his eyes were full of grit. How long had she been in there? And why in the name of Andraste's teats wouldn't they let him in?

Another shriek split the night. Or was it morning? Maric didn't know anymore. There was little way to tell the passage of time in this hallway. The torches hissed and popped in their sconces, and the shadows were long and flickering. Maybe it just looked that way because he was so exhausted.

The door creaked and Maric looked up, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. He tried to get a good look into the childbirthing room and saw the orange glow of a hearty fire, and silhouettes of people bustling back and forth. "More hot water!" one of the women barked, and there was even more scurrying.

"What's happening?" he asked Kilda the midwife, who'd left the room and quickly shut the door behind her, barring his view of the birthing room.

Kilda had to be as tired as he was, but she wasn't showing it. She carried herself with the professionalism of a woman who'd been in her career for a very long time. The lines around her eyes spoke of many smiles, though the creases in her forehead spoke of countless hours of care and worry over the years. "The Queen does well," she said. "For her first, the birth is progressing as well as can be expected." She smiled, but the corners of her eyes did not crinkle; in fact, she winced when a cry erupted from behind the door. "But a birth is a birth," she added, trying to be cheerful.

"Well… can I go in?" Maric asked after a pause. There was an awkward silence. The yelling had stopped for a time. "And is that normal?" he asked, looking toward the door. "The quiet. She was so… loud before," he said. His stomach twisted, and he felt as if he'd taken a dip in the Drakon River in the winter. His fingers tingled. His ears buzzed.

The midwife laid a hand on his broad shoulder. He looked down. Small locks of hair were escaping from her wimple. "All is as it should be, King Maric," she said. She squeezed his shoulder slightly, trying to be reassuring. "We have done this before for many noblewomen. Though this is my first time delivering for a Queen of Ferelden," she added.

Maric appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood. But she hadn't answered his question and that was what concerned him. "Thanks, but can I go in?" he asked again. He unconsciously took her hand from his shoulder and clasped it. He met her eyes, begging her with his gaze, and didn't realize how much he was squeezing until she gently, yet firmly wrenched her hand out of his.

"Rest assured, Majesty," she said. "The birthing room is no place for a man." With a nod of finality she turned her back on him and slipped back into the room. Maric couldn't even glimpse the interior of the room before the door closed in his face once more.

He leaned against the door, pressing his ear against the rough wood. He didn't know what he hoped to hear. Rowan's voice, not contorted with pain? Words of reassurance from the midwife or her team?

He was rewarded with another scream and he backed away, frightened. If he'd known childbirth was going to be this bad, perhaps he wouldn't have heeded Loghain's insistence that he and Rowan try for an heir. Surely some miracle could occur, granting Maric and Rowan immortality, so she could have been spared…

Maric crossed the hallway and slumped to the floor, staring at the birthing room door, willing the birth to be over. All he wanted was to be with his wife and child, for her pain to be ended and his wait to be over. He stretched his legs out in front of him and twisted the simple gold band around his finger that symbolized his union with Rowan.

Time passed. He kind of wished Loghain was here, if only for the entertainment his friend's gruff demeanor could provide. Loghain wouldn't let him sit here on the floor, wallowing in a pool of self-pity. He'd force him out to the practice ring, and make him bleed off his anxious energy with sword and shield drills. Or he'd put him in his bedroom, demand he get some sleep, and assign a regiment of guards to keep Maric locked in. Little would he know that Maric would simply climb out his window, or use any number of secret passages leading from the room…

Maric smiled at the thought, but didn't get up. Sneaking around just wasn't any fun when there was no Loghain to evade. Loghain was settled in Gwaren, running the southernmost Teyrnir with his own wife and young child. He'd hinted that he'd like to stay in Denerim, but Maric had only smiled and insisted that his old friend go be with his own family.

That was shortly after they'd discovered Rowan was with his child. Time had passed, but none of them forgot the dark trek through the Deep Roads and all that had transpired there. The last five years had proven profitable for Ferelden, and Maric was already making quite a name for himself and for Rowan as King and Queen. But there was always that shadow of the past hovering at the edge of Maric's being.

He didn't want that shadow looming over him, or looming over Rowan as they made ready to welcome their child into the world they'd prepared for him or her.

So Loghain was banished to Gwaren; though no one actually used that word, no one could pretend it was anything different. Loghain went home to his wife, Celia, and daughter, Anora; the tow-headed girl was already nearing five years of age. Rowan and Maric spent the intervening months preparing the nursery for their own child. And finally, after seemingly endless months of waiting, they were ready to welcome the baby into this world.

Fear suddenly gripped at Maric's heart with icy claws.

All of those tiny clothes Rowan and her handmaids had worked to knit and stitch… how could his own big, rough hands hope to handle them?

He'd slain Orlesians and darkspawn, but would he be able to handle a soiled diaper?

His hands had held swords and shields and dealt death. Was he equipped to handle new life?

So many questions. It made Maric nauseous. He hadn't even felt this sick at the prospect of ruling his kingdom. And he hadn't even been this afraid the night his mother had been killed and he'd stumbled blindly through the Ferelden countryside.

"I'm not ready," he croaked to the empty hallway. "Maker's balls. I have no idea what to do." The realization terrified him. A sudden shriek of pain startled him back to reality. Rowan probably wasn't ready for this, either, and here she was pushing a baby out of _there_. No wonder she was crying out so much. The difference was she had Kilda and a bevy of skilled women attending to her.

Maric had the stony silence of the hallway.

The door creaked open once more, but Maric was too tired to get to his feet. He looked up. Kilda stood in the doorway. Her apron was wrinkled and smeared with red, and what little was in Maric's stomach threatened to come up. "Your Majesty," she said. "Queen Rowan would have you attend her. And your son," she added with a sparkle in her tired eyes.

Whatever exhaustion Maric had felt miraculously vanished, and he nearly fell over himself with his excitement to get up and barrel into Rowan's room. Kilda stopped him. "She is quite tired, as you may imagine," she warned. "Her body has been through much."

"I will be gentle, good lady," he said with a smile as he sidled around her.

The first thing that hit him was the heat. A fire roared in the fireplace. A heavy kettle steamed over it. Then he was struck by the smell. It was strange: coppery, like blood, but not the acrid scent he'd grown accustomed to from the battlefield. He stood there taking it in, feeling lost in this room that, until a day and a half ago, had just been a spare room in the castle.

"Maric," Rowan called in a hushed voice. He looked over to his wife, propped up in a nest of pillows and bolsters and looking very small. Her skin was pale and shining in the firelight with a faint sheen of sweat. Her glossy chestnut hair had been twisted into a simple braid to keep it out of her face during birth, but small tendrils escaped around her face. "Come see your son," she said, and her gray eyes were glassy with tears, but she was smiling.

Maric was at her side in two strides. His heart fluttered in his chest as he perched on the edge of the bed. Rowan held what was little more than a bundle of blanket in the crook of her arm. "He's so…" Maric searched for the right words as he beheld the tiny thing his wife held, angling it for his inspection. "He's our son," he said at last, because there weren't any other words to capture what he felt.

He tentatively reached a hand toward the swaddled child, but pulled back, uncertain. He felt so huge and uncouth compared to the fragile infant, and to Rowan. She rested comfortably and looked so natural holding their son. "Is he… healthy?" Maric asked after a moment of silence.

"Kilda assures me he is," she said. "Why?"

"Because he's... well, purple," Maric said at last. There was no stopping the wellspring of love and joy he felt at seeing this thing he and Rowan had created. But the baby's skin was reddish purple; his head looked slightly misshapen, his nose flatter than Maric would have expected out of a Theirin male.

Rowan laughed. "You'd be purple too, if you'd just come out of there," she said, gesturing to her lower abdomen with her free hand. "Here, hold him," she said.

Before he could even process Rowan's command, she was passing the little bundle to him and he had no choice but to take his son in his arms, instinctively supporting that misshapen head on its weak neck, and cradling the boy to himself. He felt the tiny body shudder with every breath, felt the little limbs writhe about. Maric looked in wonder at each hand, with its perfectly formed fingers, scale miniatures of his own, that he would one day teach to wield a sword. Perfect little feet with impossibly tiny toes. Fine downy dark hair that he'd probably gotten from Rowan.

And the face. That squished face with the smooth, rounded cheeks and the lips parting in a cry…

Oh no. Crying.

"What did I do?" Maric asked, his eyes wide as he stiffened, afraid of what he might do if he wasn't careful enough. Because how could he ever take care of something this helpless, this fragile, this perfect?

"He needs to nurse," Kilda said from a quiet corner of the room. She'd entered after him, so unobtrusive that he'd had no idea they were being supervised. "Queen Rowan, shall King Maric leave?"

Rowan shook her head. "No, Kilda. This is his son. He should be part of this." She reached over, and Maric gingerly handed the baby back to his wife. He watched as one of Kilda's ladies helped Rowan slip her chemise off her shoulder, exposing her breast. Maric had seen his wife's breasts many times in their marriage bed, but never like this: engorged, ripe, as if it could rupture.

The nurse helped Rowan's hands guide the baby to her breast, and positioned them around to hold the infant in the proper position. Rowan's brow furrowed in concentration as she looked down, shifting her hold as she waited for the babe to latch on. When it happened, she leaned back, visibly more relaxed. "I may figure this out eventually," she whispered, eyes sparkling.

"Me too," Maric said, sliding onto the bed so he could be closer to her. To them.

"He needs a name," Rowan said after a moment.

Maric stared, mesmerized at the infant, at the tiny mouth vigorously nursing away at Rowan's breast. He was so tiny and fragile, so helpless, and yet one day he would be responsible for all of Ferelden. One day he would hold a sword and defend his people.

Maric reached out and touched the tiny cheek. "Let's call him Cailan."

* * *

**A/N:** This was inspired by reading the first chapter of Eve Hawke's "Of Noble Birth". She handled the chapter beautifully, and it got me to thinking about Maric as a father, and Cailan's birth. Then I figured I've written Cailan at every other stage of his life, and then some if you count the AU, so why not write about his birth and earliest years? Anyway, thank you for reading, and be sure to check out Eve Hawke's work and see why it got me started on this!


	2. Dream and Idea

_Chapter 2: Dream and Idea_

He would never tire of this sight.

Maric stood in the doorway, resting a hand on the solid frame. Rowan didn't look up; she hadn't heard him, and he liked it that way. She rested in an overstuffed chair, a pillow under the arm that supported Cailan, who was sleeping. The sun shone through the windows over her shoulder. Her long, wavy hair gleamed in the golden rays. But he could still trace the graceful curve of her neck in spite of all her glorious hair, as she bent over yet another huge tome balanced on her lap.

She would spend many of her afternoons like this, in the few months since Cailan's birth. She'd not yet officially returned to court, and Maric was secretly jealous. He often hurried through court matters in the morning, just to get a moment in with his wife and son. Those stolen moments, holding that growing, but still tiny body were his favorites.

Then after his afternoon nursing, Cailan would gorge himself into slumber. Not willing to disturb her son by getting up and putting him in his crib, Rowan had a nursemaid bring her a book from the library. The Orlesian usurper had destroyed so much of Ferelden, but he'd actually improved the palace library. And Rowan was taking time to enjoy as much of it as she could.

Maric could hear her murmuring. It wasn't a story he recognized, but then again, growing up as a refugee, and then running and winning a rebellion hadn't given Maric much time for pleasure reading. He took one careful step over the threshold, then another. She didn't look up, fully immersed in the joy she took reading to her son.

"He's too young to understand," he teased gently, voice soft so as not to wake the napping prince. He knelt down by the footstool on which she'd propped her feet.

Rowan smiled, and her eyelids drooped over her gray eyes as he absently began rubbing her bare feet. "I know. But my earliest memory was of my father reading to me," she said. She closed the book, having marked her place with a small woven strip. "I don't know how old I was. He was in his study in Redcliffe with a book. I asked him what it was, and he told me it was a story about the lands beyond the Waking Sea. It was the first time I'd thought that the world was bigger than Redcliffe." Her eyes were dreamy as she gently shifted Cailan in her arms. Maric took the book from her and set it on the floor. "He took me on his lap and read to me. I don't remember the story now for the life of me, and I'm sure the book was destroyed when the Orlesians took Redcliffe." Her brow furrowed with the memory, but one small sigh from Cailan was all it took to shake her from the troubling past. "I would have Cailan's early memories be of the magic of books."

"Our son has options we did not," Maric said, gazing up at her. He laughed softly. "My first thought was, how those hands could ever grow large enough to hold a sword; but Cailan could be a scholar if he wanted, and not a warrior."

"He was born into freedom," Rowan agreed.

Maric rose to his feet. "I'm not due at court for a couple more hours yet," he said. He rested his eyes on Cailan, whose face was twisted in some little grimace as he squirmed in his sleep. Maric reached out and took the child from Rowan, cradling Cailan in the crook of his elbow. He paced around the airy nursery, rocking his sleeping son.

"You've gotten far more comfortable with him." Rowan hadn't moved from her seat, but she'd tucked her legs up under her and dropped the pillow on the floor beside her. "I wonder what the nobility would say if you took him to court with you," she said, her gray eyes sparkling.

"Don't tempt me," Maric said with a smile. "But if you wanted to go deal with the squabbles of the Bannorn, be my guest. Bryce and Loghain are doing all they can to keep the Banns united, but people are still people and they want more power." He looked down at Cailan, whose grimace had relaxed some.

"Which is why you need to take Cailan to court," Rowan said. "The nobles will be so taken with his cuteness that they will unite."

It would be nice if so many issues could be so easily resolved. Maric knew that in the months since Cailan's birth, the many problems that had subtly plagued his and Rowan's relationship had melted away. "He'll have his turn at court, and will probably have to solve the same sorts of problems from the same sorts of people when he's king," Maric said with a smile. "For now, I think I'd take him to court for my own well being."

Cailan stiffened in his arms and his sleeping face contorted. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, showing his tiny pink tongue and his toothless gums. His eyes scrunched shut. Maric held his breath, uncertain of what was happening. It was true, he didn't hold his son as much as he wanted to; often the affairs of court and running a kingdom kept him occupied. After all, his court advisors reminded him that he hadn't pushed a child out of himself, so he could still run his kingdom.

As a result, he'd never seen this sort of expression from his son before. He looked up at Rowan, who started to rise from her seat at his look of concern.

Then Cailan relaxed, and Maric nearly did too, when a prodigious shudder rippled from the little body and all over his arm and hands. And then a smell worse than an Orlesian chevalier mounted patrol camp assaulted him. "Maker's, breath!" he cursed, torn between needing to run, and realizing that running wouldn't do any good since the source of the stench was in his arms.

Rowan laughed, nearly doubled over in the chair, her face red. "You need to see your face!" she said, rising. "Give him here," she said, and Maric handed Cailan to his mother. "There's my boy… oh Maker!" she exclaimed, and held the boy gingerly. At that point Cailan was beginning to wake, his pale blue eyes bleary and confused by the noise his parents were making. "You, ser, are a stinkbug, yes you are," Rowan said, laughing, even as her nose wrinkled.

Cailan cooed and yawned, balling his hands into small fists that struck at the air. Rowan held him out at arms' length and the loosely swaddled blanket fell to the floor. Maric saw that Cailan's diaper hung heavy, and that must be the source of the foul smell. He hadn't even smelled anything _that_ bad in the Deep Roads! "I think the Maker will be holding his breath," he said as he trailed Rowan over to the padded bench that served as Cailan's changing table.

"Highness, allow me." The elven serving girl melted out of the shadows in the corner. Maric wondered if she'd been there the whole time, or come in silently after him. She reached for Cailan, but Rowan changed her mind and did not hand the baby over. "My lady?"

"Thank you, Shiranna, but I'd like to tend to my son's needs this time," Rowan said with a smile as she laid Cailan down and began to undo his diaper cloth. "I know you have your own small one; from one mother to another, let me… Maker's balls!" she exclaimed, coughing.

Maric's jaw dropped and his eyes bugged out; he'd never heard Rowan curse by the Maker so harshly before. The shock only lasted a moment before he caught a whiff of what made her swear. His stomach heaved and his eyes watered and he looked at his son, giggling on the changing bench and kicking the air like nothing was wrong. "If we'd had him do that during the war, we could have avoided the River Dane entirely," he choked out.

"Something like that," Rowan said. She stood over Cailan, trying to figure out the best angle of approach. Shiranna looked concerned as she hovered on the edge of their small family circle, torn between jumping in and helping, or honoring Rowan's requests. Rowan ignored Shiranna and gingerly grasped Cailan's ankles and slid the diaper out from under him while he giggled away. She pulled too quickly, and the diaper and its deadly contents fell to the floor.

Both Rowan and Maric leapt back, as if it was a soulrot bomb thrown by some Orlesian magician on the battlefield. Shiranna jumped forward with the reflexes of both a servant and a mother and placed a slender hand on Cailan to keep him from rolling off the bench. "Allow me to handle this one, my lady Rowan," she said with a smile. It was evident from the twinkle in her greenish eyes that she was trying very hard not to laugh. "I've tended to my younger siblings long before this. I've seen worse." She dunked a cloth in a bucket filled with warmed water and began to wash Cailan's backside, humming.

Rowan looked at Maric. They book looked at the pile of diaper on the floor. Maric's stomach lurched and he had to turn away and fight the retching. Rowan rubbed the small of his back, and when he looked at her, her nose was wrinkled, and she was nodding.

"We drove the Orlesians out of this country," he said. "And _this_ is what defeats us?"

"We had Loghain helping us with that one," Rowan said, shrugging.

"He's going to love that."

"What?"

"When I write telling him he's been appointed the royal diaper changer."

* * *

Cailan wouldn't stop crying. It had been going on all night, and nothing seemed to stop it. He didn't want to eat. He didn't have a fever. He pushed away his favorite toys. He cried so hard he nearly spit up, then cried even harder. Parenthood had not quite been what Maric dreamed, but then again, he'd had little idea of what it would entail when he entered into it. Certainly not this all-consuming panic, borne of a complete and utter cluelessness about how to stop his son from wailing. "Let me call Shiranna," he pleaded with Rowan.

"No," Rowan said, yawning. Ever since the Diaper of Doom, she'd been determined to take an active role in rearing her son. When he'd been formally presented at court last month, at six months of age, she'd bathed and dressed him herself while her handmaidens fretted and Shiranna bit her fingernails.

Overall, Cailan was a happy baby; he was what kept Maric sane when the affairs of court were too disturbing or ridiculous to deal with. But now his beautiful, healthy child had been screaming his head off of for hours. Rowan was pale, her eyes shadowed and glassy. "He's growing, that's all. This is a test, I suppose. Shiranna said they do this sometimes."

But Cailan didn't sound like he was testing them. He sounded like he was in true pain, and at only seven months of age, he couldn't tell his parents what exactly was wrong. So he kept screaming. Maric reached out and took Cailan from Rowan. "Rest," he said gently, and she flopped back on the bed in relief. She was starting to get back to court as well, and it was taking its toll on her. More than it should have, if Maric was being honest.

He paced the room, bouncing Cailan and humming an old Fereldan lullaby his mother had sung to him many, many years ago. He was surprised he remembered it. Cailan's tears soaked through his chemise. His hair, which had turned from dark to pale blond, like Maric's, was matted to his head with sweat. He was getting bigger, and easier to hold upright, but Maric shifted his son and cradled him in one arm. "What's got my boy so upset?" he cooed over the piercing screams. "You can't cry like that forever," he said, rocking his son as he walked. He stopped by a window. The faintest gray hints of dawn shone in the sky. "You'd wake a golem if you kept doing that." He brushed a tear away from Cailan's red mottled cheek.

Cailan grabbed his hand and squeezed with his ineffectual fingers. His mouth opened in a silent scream as he pulled his father's hand. Maric let him do it, and next thing he knew, his fingers were covered with warm baby drool, and Cailan's toothless gums were trying to gnaw through his finger bones.

As a Fereldan born and raised, Maric had seen Mabari bitches whelp, and had seen the pups grow. Often they would gnaw on sticks and bones when they were cutting adult teeth.

"My little pup," Maric said, gazing down at Cailan, who had stopped crying and was now working on his father's finger with more pressure than those little jaws should have had. Maric smiled. "Now if I could only get someone to go to court for me, so you could chew on me until your teeth come in…"

He settled down on a stuffed sofa next to the fireplace. Rowan was sleeping soundly. She didn't snore, precisely, more like she sighed every so often. And even though the sun was rising and they would both be due to preside over matters of the crown in a few hours, Maric allowed himself to doze and dream while Cailan cooed and gnawed on his finger.


	3. Hope and Fear

_Chapter 3: Hope and Fear_

"Cailan come back," Rowan called from her seat in the palace's rose gardens. She sat beneath a parasol that shaded her fair skin from the harsh summer sunlight. She'd always been light-skinned, but in the past year she seemed paler than usual, and more tired. But Cailan, just about two years old, was a ball of sunlight and laughter, and delighted in making his parents chase him about.

Cailan turned back and stared for a moment at his mother. Even from this distance she could tell his eyes were sparkling, and his mouth curved into a smile. Then his laughter sliced through the hazy, warm summer air as he took off farther down the path that led between rose bushes.

Next to Rowan, Maric smiled. He took Rowan's hand and squeezed gently. His hands were larger than hers, and rougher; though they'd both been trained warriors, motherhood had softened Rowan. She worked to keep her hands soft for the sake of her son's delicate skin while Maric still trained with his weapons and developed new calluses over the years. "I'll get him, don't worry," he told her.

Rowan nodded gratefully and leaned back in her seat. She smiled, but her eyes were tired.

When Cailan had learned to walk a few months back, Rowan had chased him all over the castle. His delighted screams echoed through the halls, weaving with Rowan's rich laughter, which dissolved into gasps and giggles when she caught up with her child and swung him up into her arms. Their chases confused the servants, and made Maric happier than he'd ever dreamed he could be. This was what he'd fought for. This was why he'd freed Ferelden: not so he could rule, but so children could be born free to laugh and parents free to laugh with them.

Maric took a parallel path to Cailan's, hunkering low to the ground and watching his son through the gaps in the branches. The sun made his golden curls gleam. His hair was growing fast, as was the rest of him. Cailan's pace had slowed a bit, and he glanced around him. He looked back, and Maric did too. They both saw Rowan, and Cailan was pleased to still be able to see his mother, and continued on.

What Maric saw, though… he smiled at his wife, and she gave a little wave before dropping her hand back in her lap as though it were too heavy to hold up. In the shade of the parasol she seemed paler than was normal, and from this distance he could see that her dress was a little loose. Not draped on her, exactly; but there were creases where the fabric usually clung to her body, and the neckline dipped a little more than usual. Her collarbones seemed a bit more pronounced, as well.

It was troubling. But she'd stopped nursing Cailan a few months back, so perhaps the weight had come off with that. Maric didn't know these things. He considered calling on Kilda or Shiranna and asking, if only to settle his mind.

Cailan was walking again, holding his chubby arms up and slightly out, as though it gave him some balance. His eyes were down, watching the ground ahead of each step. He didn't see the hedge that formed a T-shaped junction, and especially didn't see Maric round a corner and sweep him up into the air.

Maric tossed his son into the air and caught him, and Cailan screamed in glee. He kicked out and flung his arms into the air. "Daddy more!" he said, and Maric laughed and swung him around in circles until they were both breathless. "Daddy, momma," Cailan said finally, pointing back toward Rowan, and struggling to be set down. Maric obliged and Cailan toddled back down the path to his mother.

His strides were short, so Maric was able to keep pace with him easily. Cailan stopped in front of Rowan. "Momma up?" Cailan asked, tugging on his mother's skirts. He gazed up at Rowan with adoring blue eyes. The garden breeze stirred his fine flax-colored curls and he smiled a toothy grin.

Rowan leaned down and reached out for him. When she lifted, it was an evident strain, and she fell against the chair back with Cailan in her lap. "You're getting to be too big, little man," she said, smoothing his tow curls out of his face, which was ruddy from the bright sun and his excited running.

"I'm a big boy," Cailan announced, nodding. "I runned, and Daddy got me."

"That he did," Rowan said. "You know I love you, Cailan," she said suddenly.

"I love you, Momma," Cailan replied, resting his head against her chest and his eyelids drooping. It seemed for one moment that his extensive energy reserves were finally exhausted, but he pushed off of Rowan and fell out of her lap. He laughed as he tumbled onto the grass, and ran off again.

"I'll get him," Maric offered, but Rowan's hand on his arm stopped him.

"Let him run and play," she said. "He can't get into much out here."

"He's not really too big for you, is he," Maric said after a moment of quiet between them. "I know he's growing, but it wasn't long ago that you wore armor sets heavier than him, while wielding sword and shield on horseback."

More quiet. The warm breezes blew the scent of roses past them, and the birds twittered. Maric loved Ferelden summers, but it always made him sad because it meant winter was on the way again. He knew it was just part of the inevitable cycle of the natural world. He felt it in his bones the way the land felt it; he felt tied to the land, like he was a part of it. He hoped that one day Cailan would feel the same way. He could imagine himself and Rowan, both with graying hair, tending roses while Cailan walked these gardens a grown man learning to be king.

"I've not felt well lately," Rowan said at last. "No consumption or stomach sickness. I'm just constantly tired," she said. She smiled, but it did not crinkle the corners of her eyes the way her smiles usually did. "It may just be trying to keep up with Cailan and with court. I didn't think it possible for one little boy to be so energetic," she said.

"He can't take _that_ much out of you," Maric said. It was hard to keep the accusatory tone from his voice, and he regretted it instantly when Rowan's forced smile fell and her eyes got wide. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I mean that perhaps there's something more that's making you ill, because one young boy isn't enough to take down Rowan the Warrior Queen." He took her hand and squeezed it, but he did not squeeze back.

"Perhaps I'm not that woman any longer," she said softly.

Maric recalled how tired she'd been when she was first pregnant. "Do you think you might be with child again?" he asked, keeping his voice even. He didn't want to get excited; but the truth was, Loghain had mentioned it, and Rowan's brother Eamon also had hinted that, while he had an excellent heir in Cailan, noble families (and especially royal ones) also needed a spare. He couldn't forget the palpable tension in his mother's face every time they battled, or faced a march to a new camp location. He used to think his mother had kept him from battle, and kept him out of the arguments over strategies because he was nothing more than a hindrance. But now, hearing his own young son's giggles borne on the breeze, and knowing that at any moment anything could happen, filled him with fear. "We Theirins have bad luck with single-child families," he joked, when he saw the look on her face. "What is it?"

Rowan had never looked so sad or troubled in the entire time he'd known her. Even when she'd heard of her father's death she hadn't had such deep sadness in her eyes. "I've not had my courses in months, and yet I'm not pregnant," she said, finally looking away from him as if in shame. Maric reached over and gently touched her cheek, imploring her to look back at him. She did, but had to blink back tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me, Maric," she said at last. Her voice trembled.

She'd been holding back her tears for a long time. Maric didn't know how long, and as he drew her from her chair and hugged her to him, he cursed himself for not noticing. It was so easy to look at her and see Rowan the warrior, who'd helped him drive out the Orlesians; who'd forged through the Deep Roads with him; who'd stood by him when he passed judgment on his own countrymen for being Orlesian sympathizers. His rock. His queen. The mother of his son.

Her shoulders heaved beneath his fierce hug, and he was shocked at how frail she felt under his hands.

"Daddy, Momma, look!" Cailan's small voice made Maric's breath catch in his throat, and Rowan pulled away. She hastily wiped the tears from her eyes, but they were still red and puffy. "Momma, I got a flower!"

Rowan sank to her knees, looking much like a wilting flower herself, as if the act of standing, combined with the heavy crying, had drained her. "What do you have, baby?" she asked.

"Flower!" Cailan proudly held a crushed rose blossom out to his mother. The red petals were ripped in his chubby, grubby hands, and he held too tight and squashed the delicate blossoms.

A sob caught in Maric's chest and made his throat constrict. The destroyed flower was one of the saddest things he'd ever seen, but so was Cailan's innocent joy as he beamed up at his mother, presenting the gift to her. He had no inkling of the fear that hung between his parents; he had no knowledge of illness, or darkness, or death.

"Thank you, Cailan, I love it," Rowan said softly. She grabbed her son and held him close to her, her cheek pressed to his. When she let him go, she took the rose. "I'll keep it forever," she promised. A petal drifted to the ground.

Maric reached down and picked up Cailan, but he would have none of it. "Momma," he said, squirming in his father's arms. "Momma!" he wailed. And just as quickly as a summer thundershower blocked out the sun, Cailan's face reddened and he screamed, kicking and shoving and reaching for Rowan.

Rowan looked up at Cailan in Maric's arms, and at the destroyed flower in her hand. Looking down on her like this, Maric suddenly saw the frailty he'd either been too busy to see, or had willfully ignored, these months. The woman who'd once been able to vault onto horseback in full plate armor struggled to get to her feet while dressed in a mere gown. Maric reached down for her hand, and Rowan grabbed on for support; but it was evident she needed him to pull her to her feet. She swayed a little and Cailan wailed and reached for her.

"I can't," she said at last, quietly. But Cailan only screamed more loudly and nearly tumbled out of Maric's arms trying to get to his mother. "Cailan I can't hold you!" she shouted, and she was crying again, tears streaming down her face as she realized she was too weak to carry her child.

Rowan's sobs hitched in her throat and the look she gave Maric was enough to get him teary, as well. She took off, running a few paces before she stopped and collapsed on the grass. She slammed her hands against the ground and her shoulders shook.

Maric knelt beside her and set Cailan on the ground. He flung himself at Rowan and his sobs stopped as soon as he'd wrapped his arms around her the best he could. She gathered him to her bosom and rocked back and forth. Maric wrapped his arms around her shoulders and held her to him, closing his eyes and willing his strength into her.

She's always been strong for him; now he had to be strong for her.

And for Cailan.


	4. That You May Always Remember Me

_Chapter 4: That You May Always Remember Me_

Eamon and Loghain would never get along. Ever.

Maric leaned against the edge of the window, pressing his forehead against the glass and hoping the coolness would soothe his constant headache. But the only thing that could accomplish that feat would be forcibly kicking both men out of his study and locking the door, then asking a mage to soundproof it so he wouldn't hear the shouting on the other side.

The problem was, all three men in the room loved Rowan in different ways. Maric had never pretended otherwise when it came to Loghain. Even when he'd married Celia, Maric knew his friend still harbored strong feelings in his heart for Rowan. And Eamon, though he was younger than both Maric and Loghain, carried himself with all of the pomp of a man older than his years. As Rowan's brother, the news that she was ill had hit him hard. And Loghain, as Rowan's former lover, was taking his rage out on Eamon and Maric.

Maric just wanted to leave and go to the chambers on the south side of the palace that had been set up for Rowan. The windows overlooked the rose gardens and received plenty of sunlight. She spent her days in her chaise, soaking in the light and reading, either to herself or to Cailan. Teagan, the youngest of the Guerrins, was in there now with Cailan and Rowan. Maric would have given anything to be there, where there would be peace, even in the midst of the sadness. At least they wouldn't be yelling.

"Enough," he finally said, but they didn't hear him, and he turned from the window. "Enough!" he shouted, and both his friend and his brother-in-law stopped and stared at him. "I didn't bring you here to scream at each other. You're here because I trust you both to help me do what's best to help Rowan."

"Redcliffe has some ties with the Circle of Magi in Kinloch Hold," Eamon said. "As their nearest trading port, we get some privileges most in Ferelden can't boast." For a moment his chest puffed up, but the expectant and stern glares of Maric and Loghain made him wither. "I asked First Enchanter Remille about her symptoms. As a competent healer, he said her illness is… regrettably unfamiliar to him." Eamon's voice was low, as if admitting this aloud were shameful. "He sent some herbs for me to bring, courtesy of the Circle and intended for the wellness of the Queen."

Maric sat on the edge of his desk. Not good news. "I may have to call in a favor with the Circle myself, then," he said quietly, to Eamon's consternation. "Any chance you can send for a healer in person? King's orders," he added, and Eamon nodded.

"I'll send out the quickest messenger I have at my disposal," he promised. "Maric," he added on his way out the door. He paused as if he'd forgotten what to say. "Maker watch over you," he said instead, but the wish was half-hearted and he was disturbed.

Loghain shut the door behind him. The silence hung between the two old friends. "Why did you bring me here?" he finally asked. All of the unspoken history between Maric, Loghain, and Rowan floated in the air with the dust motes and sunlight.

Maric shrugged. "We were all friends. We saved this country together. And now we need to save Rowan."

Loghain leaned back against a wall, arms crossed over his chest. It seemed impossible, but the years in Gwaren had made him seem even harder. How ruling a peaceful southern Teyrnir could make him harder than the rebellion years, Maric didn't think he'd ever understand. "There's more to it than that. There always is, with you."

"Fine." Maric ran his hand through his hair and stood, then paced around his study while Loghain remained the immutable rock of a man he always was. "I'm not sure how to say it," he told him after a moment.

"Usually just opening your mouth and letting the words fall out is a good start," Loghain said. "That's never stopped you before."

That was true. Maric knew he had faults, and Loghain seemed to know them even better than he did himself. He sighed. "I don't need an advisor, or angry in-laws," he said. "I don't need Revered Mothers or Clerics or mages and templars telling me what to try and what not to do anymore. I need a friend," he admitted.

"That's sentimental," Loghain said, voice still even, but his expression had gone blank. He would never learn, Maric thought, that a blank expression was still an expression, and gave away just as much as any other change to his mien.

"You've been in this place before," Maric told him. "When… when you lost Celia." Loghain's face was still neutral, but his jaw clenched. "I know you probably don't want to talk about it. But… I need someone who understands what this is like. You lost Celia and still had to raise Anora, and still run Gwaren, and… I don't know what I'm going to do," he said at last.

That was the most frustrating part of everything. Rowan didn't know what was happening to her, and neither did anyone else. Maric didn't know what to do without her, and she wasn't even gone yet. No, not 'yet'. He couldn't think like that. But each day she grew paler and weaker and thinner and his confusion and helplessness increased. It would be one thing if he just had to raise Cailan, or just had to run the kingdom.

He had to do both.

He could rescue an entire country from the most powerful nation in all of Thedas, and he couldn't save Rowan. He had raised Ferelden from the ashes of occupation, and he didn't know how to raise his son alone.

"You take each day as it comes," Loghain said slowly. "You don't think about the past, because it hurts. You don't think about the future because it hurts. You live each day and you raise your child the best you can. It's no different from the rebellion," he said. He looked away from Maric. They'd shared a lot in the years they'd been friends, including pain and fear. But not like this.

"Thank you for being here," Maric told him at last.

Loghain gave a slight bow. "I do as my king commands," he said, but his voice held a note of irony, and he was smiling slightly. "Fine. And as my friend asks," he added.

Seeing Loghain forced to admit emotional connections was enough to make Maric smile as well. "Would you like to visit with Rowan?" he asked.

Loghain closed his eyes and his nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply. His lips pressed together tightly. "I… would like that," he said and stormed out before Maric could say anything else to him.

He sighed and followed Loghain through the palace corridors. His friend seemed to know the palace layout almost as well as he did, but then again, Loghain spent quite a bit of time here. Maric expected they would pause outside of her quarters and gather composure, but Loghain knocked once and entered before anyone responded.

Maric followed him in. Teagan sat on the floor playing with Cailan. He would stack painted blocks into a tower, only for Cailan to knock it over. His laughter was as bright and golden as the streaming sunlight. Teagan was thirteen, but didn't seem to mind being relegated to occupying his three year old nephew's attention. He smiled and just built the tower up again, only for Cailan to knock it down again.

With his mop of unruly auburn hair and his hazel eyes, and of course his smile, he looked almost just like a male version of Rowan. Eamon took more after their father, Rendorn. Maric swallowed around a lump in his throat as he realized that one day, Teagan might be the one Cailan had to look to in order to recall his mother's looks.

He pasted on the goofy, dumb smile he'd gotten so good at wearing in the months since Rowan's illness. She could see right through it, of course, but it seemed to appease people who didn't know better. She looked up from the book in her lap. The way her hand rested on the page, it was clear she'd dozed off in the middle of the page. "Good morning," she said, smiling at Maric. Then her eyes widened when she saw Loghain. Her pale cheeks, which looked a little sunken, reddened slightly. "Loghain," she said in a whisper.

Rowan fumbled with her book, which fell off her lap. Teagan looked up, then scrambled to his feet and bowed hastily, his mop of hair flopping into his flushed face. "King Maric, Teyrn Loghain," he said.

Cailan looked up, too. "Daddy!" he said, leaping to his feet, and nearly falling over before Maric swooped in and caught him, picking him up and resting his son on his hip. "Uncle Teagan plays blocks," he said with a nod. He was just shy of three years, but spoke clearly. Maric had no doubt that it was from all the books Rowan read to him. The more her illness progressed, and the weaker she became, the more she read to Cailan; it was the only thing she could share with him, it seemed.

"I see that, Cailan," Maric said. "How about you and your uncle go find a book in the library," he suggested, smiling and trying to hold back the tears. Though most people saw Cailan as a mirror image of Maric, all Maric could see in his son was the liveliness Rowan had once had.

"You can go with them," Rowan called. "It's okay, Maric, I'm sure the Teyrn will keep me from harm," she added with a wan smile. She'd leaned back in her chaise, admitting defeat and accepting that Loghain was going to have to see her in her weakened state, the same way Maric did. "It'd be better if Cailan got some sun and fresh air anyway," she added. "I feel guilty when he spends so much time in here with me."

Maric had set Cailan down next to Teagan. He strode over to Rowan and knelt by her, then kissed her cheek. Her skin was dry and felt thin beneath his lips. Next to him, Loghain was hardly breathing. The three of them had always played on their best behavior when they were together, since even just before the wedding and coronation. But now, Maric was realizing there was no time left for pretenses. He already had too many regrets. So he kissed his wife, and the mother of his child, right in front of Loghain. "We'll come back," he promised.

"I know you will," Rowan said, meeting his eyes. In that one gaze he saw that, in spite of all that had happened in their pasts, and all that was happening at present, she trusted him. She loved him.

He had to run out of the room to keep from shedding tears in front of Loghain.

"King Maric, just how unwell is my sister?"

Maric had practically forgotten Teagan in his rush. Now his thirteen year old brother-in-law stood by him, and Cailan was impatiently tugging Teagan's hand, demanding, "Books!"

"Let's take Cailan to the library and let him lose himself for a time," Maric suggested. "And Teagan, we are family. It's Maric. Please." Teagan bobbed his head in an awkward nod of agreement and apology. He had none of Eamon's airs, but also still had yet to grow into Rowan's gentle confidence. He would make a good Bann one day. Perhaps even an Arl. Maric snatched Cailan off his feet, and his son screamed in delight.

"Put me down!" Cailan cried, though he was laughing.

"Never," Maric told his son, and carried him, struggling, all the way to the library.


	5. Balance Sundered

_Chapter 5: Balance Sundered_

"After everything she fought for you'd send _him_ in?" Loghain shouted.

"He's the fucking _First Enchanter_," Maric shouted back. "And she is my _wife_. If you think I won't try anything to save her, you're crazier than a drunken nug."

Loghain's face, contorted by anger, froze and then became quizzical. "Drunken nug?" he asked, momentarily forgetting that Remille, the First Enchanter of the Ferelden Circle of Magi, who was visiting to see to Rowan's illness, was Orlesian.

Maric pushed his hair out of his face. He needed to shave. He needed to sleep. He needed to rule his kingdom and he needed to play with his son and he needed Loghain to understand that some things were more important right now than where the First Enchanter had been born. "I learned it from King Endrin Aeducan when Rowan and I made a state visit to Orzammar a few years back. But in all honesty, Loghain, you need to look beyond this. This is about more than Ferelden and Orlais. It's about Rowan and her life," he said.

Loghain was usually hard to read, even for Maric, but when it came to Rowan there was no hiding his feelings. "There must be another way. Another mage. Another herbalist."

"Anyone or anything not Orlesian," Maric translated, and Loghain's jaw clenched. "I called you here because I need a friend," he said. "I know how you feel about Orlais. But if I'm the bloody King of Ferelden and _I_ can look beyond what they did to my mother and to my country, I'd like to hope you can maybe at least try to be civil. And if not for me, then for Rowan," he said.

It was a low blow, and Loghain's eyes narrowed. "I don't like it," he said at last. "But you're more bull-headed than most bulls, and you both must be desperate if you'll allow a… a _lickspittle_ Orlesian to tend to Rowan. I can't respect the man, but I can respect desperation," he said at last, and his voice was a little softer. He wouldn't meet Maric's eye.

It would have to do for now.

Remille's diagnosis was the same as that of the Chantry priestesses and the physicians and anyone else Maric had reached out to. Rowan was simply wasting away. Each day she seemed paler, thinner, and more ethereal. Maric feared he would wake up one morning and she'd simply be gone, faded into the air.

He and Loghain parted ways. Rather than go to his study, or to Rowan, Maric headed for the library, where he knew he'd find Remille. The First Enchanter had expressed his interest in the royal collection, and Maric did indeed find him seated at a polished cherry wood table with a stack of books by his side. Cailan sat across the table from him, a huge book opened up in front of him. There was no way he'd gotten it down himself, so Maric figured it was one of Remille's castoffs.

"Are you helping our guest?" Maric asked, kneeling down next to his son, and glancing over at Remille.

"He's helping Mommy, so I am too," Cailan said without looking up. He gently lifted a page and turned it over. Maric glanced at the book. It was written in Arcanum, and by rights, should have been at the Circle of Magi. Cailan studied the words, squinting slightly, and giving his father a sidelong glance. Maric repressed the urge to smile, though Cailan's earnestness panged him. It hurt even more when Cailan sat back with a huge sigh. "Nothing in this one, either," he announced.

Remille looked up. "Your son exhibits enormous curiosity that is rarely seen in anyone, let alone one so young," he said in his lilting Orlesian accent.

"That would be Rowan's influence, fortunately," Maric said. "She was reading to him in the womb."

"Where are you from?" Cailan asked suddenly, sitting up straighter again.

"Cailan, don't interrupt," Maric said gently. He picked up Cailan, who squirmed, and sat down in the chair across from Remille with Cailan in his lap. "What do you say?"

Cailan huffed. "Sorry. Where are you from?"

Maric shook his head, but Remille smiled. "I'm from a tower on an island in a lake, young one," he said.

"You talk funny."

"Cailan!" Maric said.

"It's quite fine," Remille said with a wave of his hand, his smile never faltering. "I was born in a different country far away from here. Maybe one day you will visit it?" he asked, casting a glance at Maric, who just shrugged. "But I was hoping to speak with your father alone," he said.

Maric set Cailan on the floor. "Can you go find a book for Mommy to read? I think she finished the last one you brought her," he said.

"I'll find a good one!" Cailan exclaimed, rushing off.

"Cailan!" Maric called, and Cailan stopped and spun around. "Only the bottom two shelves. Don't go climbing again, okay?"

"Kay, Daddy!" Cailan said, and was already running again. He rounded a corner and was gone, and things were suddenly silent. Maric envied the way Cailan could lose himself. It made it easier to deal with everything, knowing that he didn't have to worry about his son. He'd heard stories from Bryce Cousland about his son, Fergus, getting into things and raising all sorts of mischief around the castle in Highever. Eleanor was finally pregnant with their second, after losing two pregnancies; after what they'd dealt with from Fergus, they were due for some peace.

"King Maric," Remille began, when they were certain Cailan was out of earshot. "I wondered if I might ask you some questions that may prove difficult," he said. "I know there may be uneasiness between our home nations…"

"I'm not Loghain Mac Tir," Maric said. "I invited you here as the First Enchanter of Ferelden. I don't give a nug's arse where you were born or what your accent sounds like," he said. "Ask what you need. I just want to know what can be done for my wife," he said.

Remille nodded. "I appreciate your candor, Your Majesty." He leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together in a tent shape. "I've done some reading, and wanted to confirm that you were, indeed, in the Deep Roads during your rebellion."

A sharp pang shot through Maric's gut and the library felt darker and stuffier even though the sun was still shining through the windows. His pulse drummed in his ears and he clenched his hands into white-knuckled fists. The Deep Roads. The trip beneath Ferelden had been a necessary evil, and he tried to repress the memories of the cloying darkness and spider webs and smoke.

Katriel in his arms, her lips on his.

Rowan, somewhere in the dark, crying. Loghain the one to comfort her, not Maric. Tension thicker than the corruption that surrounded them. Tension that smothered him and nearly got him killed.

Maric forced himself back to his senses. That was the past. He made himself meet Remille's eyes. "Yes. Yes, we were."

"Are you familiar with the darkspawn?"

Maric shrugged. "The Chantry teaches that it was the hubris of the Tevinter magisters," he said, something he'd repeated often in his Chantry lessons as a boy. "And the last Blight was four hundred years ago. We didn't see any darkspawn when we were in the Deep Roads, either." He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back. "What would any of that have to do with Rowan?"

Remille stretched out his lanky arms and his elbows popped, a loud sound in the otherwise silent library. Maric wondered vaguely what Cailan was up to. "Darkspawn kill, as you know; but they also infect all they touch with corruption. Lands. Plants. Animals. And humans." He paused and stared at Maric, who was beginning to feel cold. "It is very likely the Queen was exposed to the taint and that may be the cause of her illness."

Maric's head was spinning and he closed his eyes, but it didn't help. The Deep Roads memories; the taint; the darkness. Death. "Is there a cure?" he asked at last.

"Only the Grey Wardens have mastered the taint, and they've been cast out from Ferelden for many years," Remille said. "Though I cannot say what they would do even if they were…"

Remille's voice drifted off when a shriek pierced the air, followed by a thud. Maric sat upright, clutching the arms of the chair and looking all around. "Cailan," he said suddenly and jumped up. Fear made his pulse throb in his veins and choked the breath from his lungs. "Cailan!" He called, running up the main aisle of the library, looking down the side shelves. Four rows down he saw Cailan on the floor.

He ran to his son and knelt. Cailan was pale, his eyes glassy and rolling up into his head. A ruined stack of books hinted that he'd been trying to climb up to a higher shelf and lost his balance. "Cailan, it's Daddy," Maric said in a strangled voice. Maker, no, he couldn't do this; not while losing Rowan, too. "Cailan?" he asked. He reached for his son and realized he wasn't breathing.

He thought he might pass out. No. No, no, no, nonononono…

He'd seen the sailors on Lake Calenhad save a drowning man once, and they'd taught him how to start the lungs again. Maric bent over Cailan and breathed into his son's tiny lungs, and felt his small chest for a heartbeat. Somewhere, someone was calling his name. He was seeing stars. He could save his whole kingdom, but couldn't save his wife. Couldn't save his son—

Cailan was wriggling beneath him. And his breath was warm on Maric's face. Maric sat up and picked up his son, who looked around groggily. "Good morning," Maric said gently, cradling Cailan in his arms. He glanced around; there was no blood on the floor, and just a small gash over his pale eyebrow where a falling book had caught him. There was a good-sized lump growing on the back of his head, and as Cailan regained more awareness, he seemed to pick up on Maric's pain and relief and fear and then his own uncertainties all at the same time.

When Remille found them, Maric was clinging to a sobbing Cailan, murmuring incoherently, while Cailan cried for his mother.


	6. She Shall Know No Fear of Death

Author's Note: I took the title of this chapter from Threnodies, in the Chant, but also as a nod to EilonwyCousland QueenOfTragedy, who wrote a beautiful and heart-rending one-shot with this title, about the same situation, before I'd conceived of this chapter, and whose short story stuck in my mind as I came to this difficult moment in this story.

* * *

_Chapter 6: She Shall Know No Fear of Death_

The Chantry had sent Revered Mother Perpetua and acolytes to pray over Rowan. "The one who repents, who has faith, unshaken by the darkness of the world, she shall know true peace," she said, head bowed and arm outstretched over Rowan's body.

For her part, Rowan took this in stride, though she kept glancing at Maric, who stood nervously by the door. He was powerless, and it frustrated him. When Remille had suggested darkspawn taint as a cause of Rowan's wasting illness, he'd sent riders out to find the nearest Grey Warden outpost. It was a desperate gamble: the Wardens had been banned from Ferelden centuries ago, but Remille assured him that they knew of the taint better than anyone.

None of his riders had returned, and no word had come of their whereabouts. They may have fallen afoul of bandits, or had to go all the way to the Anderfels for all Maric knew.

"Maker's blessings upon you, my Queen," Perpetua said, crossing her arms over her chest and bowing before Rowan. "Please send for me if you require more spiritual guidance," she said. "I am ever at the service of the Crown in the Maker's name."

"Thank you," Rowan said in a soft voice. "Maric?" she asked, and Maric nodded his thanks to the Revered Mother as she exited, leaving him alone with his wife. These times were so few and far between of late. If he wasn't facing the increasing demands of the court, or the constant companionship of Loghain, there was a Chantry acolyte or a mage tending to Rowan. Was it too much to ask for a few moments alone with her?

He climbed into bed with her and gathered her into his arms. She had always been muscular from her years of training; motherhood had softened her curves. But whatever sickness lodged itself inside of her sucked her life away and made her willowy and delicate now. He feared his large and calloused hands would break her.

A lump caught in Maric's throat. Only three years ago he'd felt the same about his newborn son. Now Cailan grew into a vibrant toddler who was no worse for wear after his fall in the library. Maric still felt terror when he recalled that moment and the knowledge that life was fickle and could change without warning. He hadn't told Rowan about it. At this point, he was afraid anything could kill her before he'd had a chance to say goodbye.

Who was he kidding? He would never feel ready for that, no matter how long she lingered like this.

Rowan leaned her head against his chest. When he stroked her hair, a few strands came away. Her chestnut tresses had lost their luster, and seemed thinner. "The Chantry has good intentions," she began. "But they're not really helping."

"They believe that prayers help heal," he said carefully.

She laughed, a quiet chuckle that turned into a wracking cough. "Transfigurations is the prayer for the departed," she said. "Or those about to depart. You can't miss the emphasis on confession and cleansing."

Typical Rowan, always the analytical scholar. "Do you want to make confession?" he asked after a moment. It was the worst question he'd ever asked.

"No. I've made peace with almost everyone."

"Almost?"

She shuddered against him, but he didn't know if it was from a spasm of pain or a chill of regret. "I can never be at peace knowing that Cailan will grow up without a mother," she said at last. She shuddered again and her breath hitched in her throat.

"Oh, Rowan," Maric breathed. He tangled his fingers in her hair and held her fiercely to him and her thin shoulders shook under his arm. "Never regret what you couldn't control," he told her, rocking her while she cried.

At this point, even strong emotions tired Rowan, and as her sobs subsided she relaxed against him. Her breathing whistled in and out, and Maric felt each rib and each vertebrae beneath the linen of her night gown. He stared across the room at nothing, really, lost in his thoughts. A few months back he had been able to pretend that the Circle of Magi would be able to help, and when that failed, the Chantry would have some miraculous cure. He had even nearly suggested the Urn of Sacred Ashes, but stopped himself before he came across as insane. Everyone knew that was a myth, and Maric had no time left for myths. Only the stark desperation of reality.

Rowan stirred against him and he stroked one cool, papery cheek beneath his thumb. He regretted ever being unfaithful to her. He hated his youthful self and wanted to go back and throttle that oblivious young man into seeing what was before him.

A soft rap sounded against the door, and before Maric could move, Cornelia bustled in. He'd hired her on as Cailan's nursemaid just after the library incident, when he realized Rowan would likely never leave her sick room, and he himself could not do the job of king, husband, and father alone.

"Majesty," Cornelia said with a curtsy. Her black hair shone in the low firelight, and Maric wondered when it had grown dark. "I did not wish to intrude, but the young prince demands your presence. He won't listen to reason, and will not take no for an answer." She kept her cool, but it was evident that Cailan's demands had probably been going on long enough to wear her down.

Maric nodded. "Thank you, Cornelia." He shifted and helped Rowan lay back against the pillows, which threatened to swallow her up. She groaned just a little bit, and he bent over to kiss her forehead. "I'm going to see to Cailan," he said. "But I'll be back."

"Bring him," Rowan said in a voice that was almost a whisper. She did not open her eyes, and the breath she took was shallow.

Maric strolled out of the room, but as soon as he was in the halls he took off at a sprint. Poor Cornelia was left behind. His heart thudded faster than he could run, and he realized he was worried that it would be too late. He skidded to a stop in front of Cailan's room, just off of the master suite Maric and Rowan had shared before her illness kept her confined in another part of the castle.

"Daddy!" Cailan said, jumping to his feet and running to fling himself at his father. Maric caught him and scooped him up in his arms. It was evident that Cailan had been crying, but at the sight of his father, his tears were forgotten. "I miss you, Daddy," he said, nuzzling into Maric's shoulder.

His heart nearly snapped in two. "I miss you too, little man," he said, ruffling Cailan's wild flaxen hair. It was getting long, and it swept over his forehead and fell into his bright blue eyes. Everyone said Cailan was an exact copy of Maric; but all Maric could see when he gazed into those blue depths was Rowan: her intelligence, her curiosity, her love for life. The way he walked, the way he looked at everything around him… his looks were Maric's, but Cailan's mannerisms were completely Rowan's.

The backs of Maric's eyes were hot and his throat hurt. "What have you been up to?" he asked, swallowing back his grief and taking a deep breath before pasting on a smile.

"I want to read a book with Momma," Cailan said. He had better verbal skills than most his age and Maric knew it was from more than just having the privileges of being a royal. Again, Rowan's influence: she insisted on reading to him all the time, and on speaking with him as if he were an adult, if just a tiny one.

"Show me," Maric said, setting his son down and fighting the constricting pain in his chest.

Cailan came back holding a slim book that had been permanently relocated from the library to his room. It was worn, and it was one that Rowan and Cailan read over and over again. "I practiced reading it," he said. He was smiling, beaming up at Maric and holding out the book. "I want to show Momma."

"She'd like that," Maric whispered.

Cornelia appeared beside him, breathing hard, and with a sheen of sweat on her face. "Sire, if you'd like me to accompany you, if the boy needs to…" her voice trailed off and she cast her eyes at the floor.

Maric could only shrug. What did you say when you knew your wife could very well be dead when you returned to her sick room, with a three year old child in tow? "I'll moderate my pace this time," he told her with a forced smile and a slight nod of gratitude. It was getting so hard to keep up the walls of courtly propriety. At this point, only the fact that Cailan was standing at his feet, impatient and tugging on his jerkin, made him retain what was left of his calm.

The walk back to Rowan's room felt like miles, and the feelings of dread crushed Maric like tons of stone and he felt like he was back in the Deep Roads once more. Cailan would run ahead around a corner and Cornelia would chase him, often casting a worried glance back at Maric.

Cornelia waited out in the hall when Maric approached Rowan's room with Cailan. "I'll be right here should you need me, Sire," she said. "And you, mind your ma and da, young man," she told Cailan, after fussing with a cowlick atop his head. Cailan squirmed away, but he was smiling.

"I like her, Daddy," Cailan said. "Daddy?" he asked suddenly, looking up. "Are you hurt?"

Maric blinked and quickly rubbed at his eyes. "I'm not hurt, Cailan. But I'm hurting. Someday I may be able to explain it to you."

Cailan flung himself at his father's legs and held tight. "There. Momma always hugged me when I hurt," he said, voice muffled. He looked up with earnest blue eyes. "Can I go hug Momma? Cornelia says she's hurting, too."

"Yes, Cailan. You can go hug Momma," Maric said in strangled voice. "She'd like that."

Cailan nodded resolutely. "Then I'll read her my book."

Rowan was still lying down when they entered, but she turned her head and offered a ghost of a smile when Maric and Cailan entered. "Hi baby," she whispered. "Did you bring me a book?"

Cailan stood still, suddenly uncertain despite all of his earlier confidence. "I brought the story about the three Mabaris," he ventured at last. "Can I read it with you?"

"I'd like that," Rowan said. "Come sit with me."

Maric nudged Cailan's shoulder gently, and Cailan slowly approached his mother. Maric lifted him up and set him on the bed, then joined them. Cailan climbed into his lap. He took a deep breath, then cleared his throat a little bit before opening the cover of the book. "Three Mabaris," he said, looking down at the first page.

He began the story and Maric was amazed at the rate his son could read; but soon Cailan was telling the story and flipping pages and filling in information that was certainly not in the tale of the three Mabari pups, and he realized Cailan had memorized it from the multitude of times Rowan had read it with him. But he didn't stop him. Cailan's small voice babbled on about how the pups' mother would be sad if anything happened to them, and how they would be sad if anything happened to her…

Next to him, Rowan's eyes were closed, but her lashes were wet. Still Cailan prattled on and neither of them stopped him. Maric wished he could freeze this moment forever, only with Rowan well enough to sit up and turn pages with Cailan.

"And that's the end," Cailan suddenly announced, but he hadn't come anywhere near the last page. "Did you like the book, Momma?" He looked over at Rowan. "Momma? She must have fallen asleep. It's okay, I fall asleep when Cornelia reads me stories at bedtime. Is it Momma's bedtime?" He twisted in Maric's lap to look up at his father.

"I think she just wants a nap," Maric said, even as he looked to be sure that she was still breathing. He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

Cailan affected a large yawn. "I want to nap, too. Can I nap with you both?" he asked, and Maric could not refuse.

* * *

"Maric."

Rowan's whisper cut through Maric's doze and he snapped awake. "What is it, love?" he asked, gently shifting a sleeping Cailan off his lap and to the mattress between them.

Her eyes were still closed and when she tried to talk she winced. "Get him a dog," she said, quirking up one corner of her mouth in an attempt to smile. "He'll be king one day. A Fereldan king should… should have a Mabari…" Her head lolled to one side, and her breathing was labored for a moment, but evened out. "So… tired," she whispered.

"Then rest," he murmured back, brushing her hair off her forehead and planting a kiss there. "I'll be here. With Cailan."

"He shouldn't be here."

"He's sleeping now. You know how cranky he gets when he's woken," Maric reminded her. His eyes were hot and his vision blurry from unshed tears.

"Worse than you," she said with another attempt at a smile.

"Rowan, I love you," he said. He couldn't even pretend to feel any levity anymore.

"I know," she said. She reached over to Cailan and rested her hand on his hair. "Love him, too. He's your firstborn. He'll need you. More than ever." She took a deep breath sighed before falling into sleep once more.

_I need _you_, Rowan_, Maric thought. But he was fighting a battle he would never win. Rowan knew it, and even to some extent Cailan knew it. He swallowed against his tears and reclined, one arm over Cailan and his hand resting on Rowan's shoulder.

He called Mother Perpetua for last rites the next night as the hour drew near to midnight. Cailan was asleep in his arms.

"These truths the Maker has revealed to me: as there is but one world, one life, one death, there is but one god, and He is our Maker," she chanted, head bowed and one arm raised out over Rowan's body in blessing. "All things in this world are finite. What one man gains, another has lost."

Cailan stirred against Maric's chest and he hugged his son fiercely to him. Mother Perpetua looked up at Maric, her face a mask of empathetic pain for her king and prince. Maric made no show to hold back his tears any longer. They flowed in hot trails down his face, burning worse than acid. He closed his eyes and nodded.

"She shall know the peace of the Maker's benediction. The Light shall lead her safely through the paths of this world, and into the next." The Revered Mother's voice trembled. "For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water. As the moth sees light and goes toward flame, she should see fire and go towards Light." She paused and Maric heard her breath hiss in and out.

He clung to Cailan and buried his face against his son's shoulder, no longer caring if he woke him, or if anyone heard or saw. He swayed back and forth in rhythm with his heartbeat and his tears and nodded once for the Mother to continue.

"The Veil holds no uncertainty for her, and she will know no fear of death, for the Maker shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword. I commend you, Queen Rowan Theirin, to the Maker in the name of Blessed Andraste."

Maric barely heard her footsteps, barely felt her light touch upon his shoulder. "It is finished," she said. "Would you like me to pray for your comfort and that of your son?" Her voice was choked, and all Maric could do was nod as he stared into the tear-stained blackness of his closed eyes.

"O Maker, hear my cry: guide me through the blackest nights…"


	7. Epilogue: Firstborn

_Epilogue: Firstborn_

He paced in front of the closed door. He was clad in full armor, his sword already strapped to his back, and a thick traveling cloak covering his shoulders. Maric had made the decision to leave, no matter what; his country demanded it.

But his conscience also demanded that he make this one farewell. And he just couldn't do it.

_You're in armor; you'll wake him._

_ You'll be guilted out of going, even though it's what's best for Ferelden._

_ He'll ask too many questions that you can't answer._

But the real reason for his indecision was far different, and more difficult for Maric to admit to anyone, especially himself.

Cailan was too much like Rowan. And for that, Maric couldn't bear to look upon his own firstborn.

The first year after Rowan's death, Cailan seemed inconsolable, crying and clinging to his father. He would disappear, only for Cornelia to find him sucking his thumb in a corner of the library, surrounded by a stack of books: books he used to read with his mother. As time passed, Cailan grew and Maric grew distant. Cailan was precocious, and the brothers tasked with his early education were astounded by his vocabulary and his thought processes.

None of that surprised Maric. Cailan may have looked like a miniature version of Maric, but he was so much like Rowan; the more he grew the less Maric could be around him. The more time he spent at court, or out riding. Well, trying to ride. That had always been Rowan's forte as well. And this past year, Maric could hardly even look at his son, let alone be in the same room with him.

It wasn't that he didn't love Cailan; no, he loved his son so much it hurt. But the loss of his queen hurt even more. And his guilt burned inside of him. He was Maric the Savior, but what was that? A name given by people who didn't know who he truly was behind the closed doors of the palace, and behind the closed off expression on his face.

When the Grey Wardens showed up, asking his assistance, he said he would do it for Ferelden.

But really, they offered him escape: from the guilt, from the pain, from the emptiness, from the memories of Rowan, and from Cailan. Maric had been an absent father, emotionally, for too long now; it wouldn't make a difference if he was now physically absent.

"Are you coming?" There was a pause. "Your Majesty," Duncan added, and Maric glanced up. The Orlesian Warden with the Riviani features and sullen face had melted out of the shadows and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, sometimes looking at Maric, other times at the floor.

Maric sighed and rested his hand on the door latch. Ferelden deserved better. Cailan deserved better. Rowan's memory deserved better. Maric had exhausted all his possibilities as a father and as a king; but Cailan… he was a blank slate, more Rowan than Maric, and under Loghain's tutelage, his possibilities were endless.

He turned to Duncan. "I'm ready," he said and followed Duncan down the darkened passages of the palace.


End file.
